Chapter 93: The Vipers Around Her
"Dragon?" Lorraine could only laugh harder, wiping the corner of her eyes as if this were the punchline of the century. "Dragons don’t exist."
Damian’s smile didn’t falter, if anything, it deepened, slow and knowing, like he was savoring the taste of a secret she wasn’t meant to know yet. "Maybe not," he said softly, voice low enough to brush over her skin like a warm breath. "But one can hope..."
She shook her head, still chuckling. The situation was grim, yes, but the thought of grown men clinging to bedtime fables was too much.
"If Vaeronyx existed," she challenged, "why didn’t he save Aurelthar from the Lion and Bear? And if he was truly the righteous creature the legends paint him to be, why did he let Aurelthar turn into a tyrant?"
Damian’s gaze lingered on her mouth before he answered. "You found his gold, didn’t you?"
Lorraine gave a little shrug, lips curling. "That’s what they say. But even if I did, it wasn’t Vaeronyx’s. It was the tyrant’s gold, wrung from his people’s screams. And even if it was, why didn’t your merciful dragon share it with the starving instead of letting it rot underground?"
"You’ve been to the tunnels," he said quietly.
Her brow arched. "And?"
"What did you see?"
She smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Not doorways large enough for a dragon." Her tone was mocking, but his eyes didn’t even flicker at the jab.
Instead, Damian studied her like a man deciding whether to peel away another layer or let it remain wrapped, like she was the puzzle and he already knew the missing piece.
For a moment, he was silent. Then very softly, as if coaxing her, he said, "A doorway doesn’t have to be large, Lorraine... if the one who walks through it chooses to wear a smaller shape."
Her smile froze, but she said nothing. As if the existence of dragons was fantasy enough, there were dragons that could change their shapes?
Wasn’t he from Lystheria and well-educated? What was he even talking about?
The silence between them stretched. And in it, Lorraine remembered the Dowager’s strange, hushed words about the dragon and the oracle, spoken as if to test her. Why tell her at all?
Was there some clandestine circle in Vaeloria, a little candle-lit club of believers, chanting in the dark, trying to rouse an ancient, imaginary beast from the grave?
She almost laughed again. Ah... hard times did make people desperate.
"Who trained you?" she asked, brushing aside talk of dragons like it was a speck of dust on silk.
Damian’s eyes sharpened despite the empty wine jar before him. "We are waiting for the savior," he said.
Lorraine’s face stiffened. Ah, hell. She’d walked straight into the clutches of zealots. She didn’t want any of this. All she wanted was to live quietly, like a wealthy spinster no one bothered—certainly not with cultists in tow.
"Is the Dowager in your sect too?" she asked, voice cool. "Is she the leader?"
If she was, that meant trouble. Dangerous trouble. Lorraine was already calculating the quietest way to cut Damian from her circle without drawing blood—or attention.
"You’ve spoken with the Dowager?" Damian’s tone carried a flash of genuine surprise. The Dowager didn’t speak to women like her, and they both knew it.
"I’ve heard from the Divina," Lorraine replied. "The Dowager was simply... interested in old lore."
Damian hummed. "She might be a member, but she’s not the leader." His voice dropped a shade darker. "It’s a man."
"Who?" Lorraine’s brows lifted. So there was a cult. Well, wasn’t this place just a viper’s nest—every snake slithering toward their own ambitions.
"My master," Damian said. His voice was threaded with reverence, almost dangerous. "When I was a boy, hiding and trembling in the shadows, he gave me his hand—and courage. He gave me this." He patted the fan at his chest, as if it were a relic.
Lorraine rose to her feet. Damian might not harm her himself, but he was loyal to that "master," and loyalty like that was unpredictable. She should have known there would be madness here—after all, she’d been playing at being a Divina in white, letting strangers believe she could glimpse the future.
This was a snake pit, and she wouldn’t be the only viper coiled in its shadows. The place writhed with others with slick scales, and forked tongues, each with their own venom, their own quiet hunts.
She wanted no part of that madness.
But Damian was someone she intended to watch... and the surest way to watch him was to keep him within striking distance. At least, for now.
Damian stood too, his movement shadowing hers.
"Tell the truth this time," she said, her back to him. "Who killed Cassian?"
His hand curled into a fist. "Technically... I did."
She turned sharply. "Where did you find him?"
Damian’s jaw tightened, mist veiling his eyes. "Hanging by a rope that was ready to snap."
She nodded, taking a step toward the door. At least now he’d said it. But she stopped, pivoting back toward him. Her gaze was sharp enough to cut.
"I met with my father-in-law recently. My husband was with me. He tried to cut my husband’s braid. And the next thing I know..."
Damian’s gaze fixed on her, noting the faint tremor in her voice. He wanted to step closer, close enough to feel her warmth, but instead he clenched his fists, helpless, as always.
"I was between his blade and my husband’s braid," she said.
His eyes widened. "Are you stupid?" he snapped, voice cracking with anger. "No braid is worth a life."
Lorraine’s lips twisted into a wry smile. "Right?" she murmured, almost amused. "I was surprised too."
Damian’s cheeks twitched with the force of what he didn’t say, and that only made her smirk deepen, until it faded.
"I want no accidents during the ceremony," she said, her tone like a knife slipping between ribs. "Especially to my husband. If there is, if anything happens to him, I won’t let you so much as see, let alone touch, my dead body."
She left him standing there, the scent of wine and danger still clinging between them.
Damian’s hands curled into fists. He was right—she would die for that man. And worse... she no longer trusted him. The realization struck like a blade to the ribs, twisting until his chest ached.
-----
Far below, in the damp dark of the dungeons, the Dowager stood before an old painting, a single candle casting tremors of light across its faded colors. Her gaze lingered on the words etched in High Veyrani script. Her hands began to tremble.
"Forgive me..." she whispered, sinking to her knees. "I can’t."
Tears ran unchecked, silent and slow. When they were spent, she rose, dabbing them away with cold, deliberate fingers. She draped the painting in black cloth—like laying a shroud over the dead.
Her voice was steady when she spoke again.
"I will keep my promise."